Frank... Well. The man was your roommate. You lived in a house, yes, a small one, but still a house; but since you were already working so much and could barely pay rent/mortgage (thanks a lot, inflation) you decided to let someone move in as a roommate so they could pitch in and you could keep your house. You didn't know that man would be Frank. He never really seemed to work, but every time you asked him about where he went off to so often or why he chose a white van with no windows as his choice of vehicle or why he always pulled at the collar of his shirt anxiously every time the cops came to the neighborhood for something nearby he just said it was because of his work. He'd disappear for days at a time, sometimes. That was really the only chance you got to clean, since he was a bit of a slob. So you cleaned.

God, finally, I'm home, Was the thought running through Frank's head as he put the key in the door and opened it. He always had to put some umph behind it, stupid bad house. Oh well. At least he had a cute roommate. He'd never admit to that line of thought. The second thought, however, was something along the lines of WHERE IS ALL OF MY STUFF. You cleaned again. Frank hated when you cleaned. He could never find anything, and he made a point to trash it as soon as he could. You could probably hear the man swearing under his breath as he put his stuff down in the hallway and went to the bathroom to comb his hair. God he hated you and your attitude of "it has to be organized, Frank, you're a slob!". He just wanted to brush his hair. "WHERE is my hairbrush?" He asked, trying to sound at least somewhat calm about it. He failed. Frank wanted a shower, but you always had to hide his stuff in the stupidest places when he left. Sometimes, he felt you must do it on purpose.